by Dylan Madrid
Quintin felt his cheeks throb with heat. He pulled away from the hostess, avoiding her cool blue eyes. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said.
“I’ll have a drink waiting for you with your name on it. This,” she promised, “will be a night that no one will forget.”
Quintin stepped out of the ballroom and made his way back to the foyer. He stood there for a moment, breathing deep and taking in all that surrounded him. Slowly he climbed the grand staircase, following its curve and running his palm up the smooth balustrade. He reached the landing at the top, turned and looked down at the main entrance of the mansion. He imagined the incredible rush of power Regina felt each time she stood in that same spot, surrounded by the most expensive-looking artwork and antiques Quintin had ever laid eyes on. He lifted his head and his gaze drifted upward to a glass-domed skylight above, which offered a circular view of the black night sky, the illumination of the half moon, and the glittering of the smattering of stars.
Quintin’s attention shifted. He looked down to the foyer below, leaning over the wooden railing out of intrigue. There was movement at the bottom of the stairs, conversation. On instinct, Quintin stepped out of the light and stood next to a potted palm. The words of two men tiptoed up the staircase and floated into his ears.
“Ambassador,” a gentle but firm voice said, “we’ve had a breach in security.”
Quintin had to move closer to the banister to get a glimpse of the ambassador. But there he was: chiseled jaw, dark hair, tailored tuxedo. Everett Bremington was more than handsome, he was breathtaking and enigmatic. He was the perfect leading man for a glamorous woman like Regina Bremington.
For a moment, Quintin wondered what Everett and Regina Bremington were really like, away from the public eye and the paparazzi. Was their marriage a happy one? Did they argue occasionally like most couples? Were they madly in love? Or had love somehow turned into hate?
He imagined them, arm in arm, strolling through the massive house, admiring the art, the antiques, their wealth and power, each other. They would smile and steal occasional glances, speaking silently with their eyes.
Rumors were already circulating that Everett Bremington could be President someday. Was this their plan? Their strategy? Did Regina Bremington have a secret desire to become First Lady?
Downstairs, the ambassador sighed with exasperation and answered, “Whoever it is, get rid of ’em.”
The other man was taller and a generation younger than his boss. His voice seemed concerned, edged with panic. “A silent alarm has been triggered in the house. We’re trying to determine the source. See if it’s anything we should be worried about.”
The ambassador put his champagne glass down on the edge of an antique table, next to a gorgeous Tiffany lamp. The light cast an amber glow on his camera-ready face. “It’s probably that damn cat again.” Quintin could have sworn he caught a smile on the other guy’s face, but he was too far away to be sure. “Have I ever told you how much I hate cats? My wife insisted we bring that thing with us from New York. She treats it better than she’s ever treated me.”
Quintin tried to get a better look at the younger man who was standing eye to eye with the ambassador. He was also well dressed, but not nearly as exquisite as the host. He placed a finger to his earlobe, trying to decipher words that were being fed to him from some sort of earpiece. “Sir,” he said, and the rising concern in his voice caused Quintin’s breath to quicken. “We just found signs of forced entry. There was a break-in through the tunnel into the wine cellar.”
“How? Did they dig through cement? I was told those tunnels were sealed off years ago.”
“I don’t have all the details yet, sir.”
“Well then, do something about it, Reed.”
“My men are searching the property.”
“Tell them to look harder. Nothing ruins one of Regina’s parties like an unwanted guest.”
“Will do, sir.”
The ambassador returned to the ballroom, leaving his champagne glass behind. Reed moved toward the front door. Quintin stepped away from the staircase, turned, and moved down the long, narrow corridor. The wall sconces flickered, casting his shadow across the yellow wallpaper as if he were being haunted by his own ghost. He reached for the brushed-nickel knob on the first door on his right. His fingers stung a little against the cold metal. With a quick spin of his wrist, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The electricity went out the second Quintin entered the bedroom. It was as if he’d tripped an invisible wire, activating it when he crossed the threshold. The instant blanket of darkness surprised and scared him. At once, he realized he could see nothing, not even his own hands when he brought them up to his face. He turned back with the intent to leave the bedroom and return to the party downstairs, but the corridor was now a sea of murky black. He stood in the doorway, certain he could hear the wild beat of his own heart. A commotion was happening downstairs: an echo of worried voices swam up the staircase, sifting through the ceiling of the ballroom and spiraling through the planks of the wooden floor of the bedroom. Something is very wrong. Quintin feared the lights were out in the entire estate. As if someone had cut the power. As if it was planned. A breach in security.
On instinct, Quintin fumbled in the dark and closed the bedroom door. Immediately, he realized he was not alone in the dark. He sensed someone else there. He could hear the slow and steady breath of a stranger. He squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust to the blackness. A thin stream of what looked like moonlight was coming from somewhere, seeping out from beneath a door around the corner from where he stood. A bathroom? A closet, maybe? Quintin took a step forward, toward the small source of pale white light, and waited.
“You are not supposed to be in here,” a voice instructed. It was a man’s voice, deep and solid. The foreign tone of it wrapped around Quintin’s body and kissed his soul. Quintin found himself simultaneously attracted to the warm hollow of the seductive voice and frightened by it. He couldn’t determine the accent, but it was there. French? Greek?
Quintin tried to swallow the thick layer of nerves coating his tongue. “I’m not the ambassador,” he quickly explained. “I’m just a guest. I was invited here by his wife.”
“I know who you are,” the stranger replied, moving closer until he was standing in front of Quintin. His bathwater voice felt warm against Quintin’s face. “You are an American.”
“Yes,” Quintin replied in a half whisper. “It’s true. I’m American. And you’re probably right. I’m not supposed to be here. I write lousy articles for a magazine for old people. So if you’re going to hurt me—”
Quintin could feel the stranger’s hot breath on his mouth when he spoke, and the sensation forced him to lick his lips. “I will not hurt you,” the stranger promised.
Quintin hoped the slight quiver in his own voice wouldn’t betray him and reveal his fear. “Who are you?”
“Shh,” the stranger said. Quintin felt a fingertip pressed to his lips. He inhaled the scent of the man’s tender skin. It was salty and sweet. “No time for questions. Not now.”
A symphony of screams and panic could be heard beneath them, exploding in the ballroom. The floor trembled a little from the roar of the terror being unleashed.
What in the hell is happening downstairs?
Quintin reached out and forward. He needed assurance, protection, comfort. He grabbed the arm of the stranger, expecting to feel the soft coolness of a blazer or shirt. Instead, Quintin’s palm made contact with the stranger’s bare arm, his wrist. “What’s happening?” Quintin asked, hoping the man in the bedroom with him would tell him that everything was going to be okay.
The stranger moved even closer. Maybe he knew Quintin needed an extra source of strength to endure the horror of the moment. He slid his arm around Quintin’s waist and placed his hand flat against the small of the American’s back. Quintin drank in the words as they were spoken to him: “I believe the ambassador has just been assa
ssinated.”
Quintin felt his knees weaken. He felt light-headed. He couldn’t believe what was happening. “No,” he heard himself say. “What are you talking about? I mean…why…why would someone do that?”
“I do not know,” he explained, “but it will be my responsibility to find out.”
Even though he was frightened, Quintin was aware of how close their bodies were, how much he wanted them to be even closer—if that were possible. As if he were accepting a dare, Quintin pressed his body against the stranger’s. Their legs and hips melded into one, their belt buckles kissed. Reminding himself that something awful was happening downstairs, Quintin tried to ignore the tip of his cock hardening and twitching in his khakis. It strained against the seam of his briefs, desperate to find the front of the stranger’s pants in the dark. Worried he’d taken the moment too far, Quintin pulled away from the man and demanded, “What are you doing in this room, in the dark? Do you have something to do with this?”
“No,” he answered. “Not me. But we know who is behind this.”
Quintin shook his head, confused. “We should do something. We should help.” He reached into his pocket, expecting to find his cell phone, but his fingers only discovered the edges of the folded invitation. Damn. I must have left my cell phone in the car. “Regina,” he said. “If someone’s killed the ambassador, we need to help her. She could be in trouble.”
“She will not be harmed.”
Quintin swallowed and said, “How do you know?”
“If I told you…”
Quintin shook his head, and he wondered if the stranger knew he was scared. “Let me guess…you would have to kill me?”
The stranger grabbed Quintin by the arm, firm and commanding. “I need to get you out of here.”
“How? No offense, but I really don’t want to go downstairs.”
Quintin was led carefully through the dark. The stranger apparently knew the exact layout of the windowless room, even in pitch blackness. Not once did they bang into furniture; their knees never collided with the sharp edges of unseen objects. “I will send you out the way I came in,” he explained.
“And if I refuse?” Quintin replied.
“You do not have a choice.”
They reached a closed door. The tiny puddle of silver-and-blue moonlight Quintin had spotted when he first entered the bedroom was creeping through a space between the floor and the wood, illuminating only their shoes: Quintin’s leather loafers and the stranger’s black boots.
“I won’t leave until you tell me who you are.” Quintin was firm.
The stranger leaned in. His lips tickled Quintin’s ear. “I am no one,” he teased. “I am just here…doing my job.”
Quintin tried to keep the nervous laughter locked in his throat, but it slipped out and danced between them. “What are you…a spy?”
Now it was the stranger’s turn to laugh. “We do not use that word anymore.”
Quintin leaned against the wooden door in front of them. “I was kidding, but it sounds like you weren’t.”
The urgency returned then. “Hurry. You need to go.”
Quintin raised his hand and lifted it toward the stranger’s face. He placed his palm against the man’s cheek, caressed it for a second with his fingertips, then slid them down to his mouth, his chin. “I wish I knew what you looked like,” he said.
The stranger covered Quintin’s hand with his own and placed it against his chest. “It is better that you don’t,” he explained. “Now, go. Please. I do not want you to get hurt.”
Quintin resisted with his body, braced it against the frame of the closed door. “At least tell me your name.”
The stranger leaned forward and the side of his face brushed against Quintin’s. Their skin burned with a mutual desire. “Mi chiamo Luca,” he said and Quintin grinned in the dark. “I am Luca.” Italian. The stranger is definitely Italian. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Wait five seconds and then go into the bathroom and shut the door behind you and lock it. Do not come out once you have gone in. There is a window. Open it. You will find a rope. Climb down to the garden below. My car is there. It is parked next to the tree. Take it and leave.”
“Your car? You want me to take your car?” Quintin waited for an answer before he continued, “Where should I go?”
“As far away from this place as possible.”
“How will you—”
“Do not worry, Mr. Pearson. I will find you.”
Quintin stopped, aware. “Wait. How did you know my name?”
For the first time, a flicker of fear suddenly tinged the edges of Luca’s words. “You must go. Now.”
“I really want to see you again. Under different circumstances, of course. Coffee would be nice. Maybe dinner. Do you cook?”
“Start counting.”
“Promise me.”
Luca grabbed the front of Quintin’s shirt and pulled hard. Their mouths collided and Quintin felt a shot of fire surge through his body when Luca’s hot tongue pressed against his. They pulled apart, breathless. “I just did,” Luca said.
“One…two…”
“Go. And remember…do not look back.”
Luca stepped away then, and by the time Quintin reached five and clicked open the bathroom door, the mysterious stranger was gone. Quintin stood for a moment, bathed in a burst of moonlight streaming in through the open window above the enormous bathtub.
As he had been instructed, Quintin closed the door behind him. It was a reluctant gesture, as Quintin wanted nothing more than to return to the room, take Luca firmly by the hand, lead him to the bed, and make love to the secretive, sexy man until sunrise.
Instead, Quintin stepped onto the wooden sill, pushed the window the rest of the way open, and breathed in the cold night air. Quintin shivered when the rain touched his skin. Just as Luca had promised, a thick nylon rope hung down, attached to the roofline above.
Is this man insane? I can’t do this.
Briefly, Quintin glanced down to the ground and the garden below. Beads of sweat quickly formed behind his ears. The tops of roses stared up at him like yellow tongues. He felt dizzy and short of breath.
Slowly, Quintin reached out. He wrapped his fingers and palms around the line. He tugged on it a few times to make sure it was secure. Then Quintin closed his eyes, hoisted himself out the window, and swung away from the house. Immediately, he tightened his grip on the rope by wrapping some of the slack between his shoulder and elbow, terrified by the thought of letting go. He swayed back toward the side of the house, the top of the trellis. Quintin cushioned the impact by pressing his feet against the stone wall.
Carefully, he inched down the rope until the bottoms of his loafers crunched against the white gravel. He let out a sigh of relief, thankful to have survived in one piece. No broken limbs. No bloodshed. Just one hell of a fun story he could tell Fiona at dinner on Thursday.
He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand and searched for a way out of the garden. He walked through a wrought-iron arched arbor. On the other side of it, next to a towering pine, was the perfect getaway car—a classic seafoam-green Jaguar. Quintin reached for the handle on the driver’s door and smiled with relief when the door clicked open. He slid in behind the steering wheel, sinking into the leather seat. Instinctually he reached for the ignition. He turned the key and the car came to life with a gentle purr.
Quintin put the car in reverse and backed away from the garden. As he straightened the car and faced the front of the estate, the reality of what had happened at Regina Bremington’s party appeared in front of him. There was a swarm of police cars, two ambulances, and scrambling television reporters. The scene was pure pandemonium. Party guests were being ushered through the double front doors of the castle and hurried away from the scene of the crime.
A mixture of fear and sorrow climbed up the back of Quintin’s throat as two EMTs rolled out a gurney with a body on it, covered in a bloodstained sheet. Luca’s assassina
tion theory was probably correct: someone had been murdered. Thinking about Regina Bremington and how devastated she probably was, Quintin wanted to cry.
Maybe Luca was wrong. Maybe Everett Bremington is safe. Someone probably took a bullet for him. The beautiful security man. Reed. He looked like a hero.
A noise chimed inside the car, followed by Luca’s voice. It was coming from somewhere in the dashboard. “Why have you not left yet?”
Quintin directed his words toward the radio. “I think you were right. About the ambassador,” he said. “They just…brought a body out…”
Quintin wondered if Luca was smiling when he said, “I told you so.”
“I don’t understand why,” Quintin offered.
“You will be questioned by the police.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You are an American. They will assume you were connected.”
“Why would I want to kill the ambassador?”
“That is a very good question,” Luca said. “You should answer it when the police find you.”
“I’m a suspect?” he asked.
“After tonight, everyone will be a suspect,” Luca explained.
Even though Luca couldn’t see him, Quintin still shook his head. “No. I’ll take my car. I’ll leave yours here. I can go away and never—” Quintin stopped. Through the windshield of the Jaguar, he looked over to where he’d parked his car less than an hour ago. The Fiat Seicento was being searched by two men in blue windbreakers. “All right,” he agreed, “I believe you. But I want to go home. This is probably a stupid question, but do you know where I live?”
“Of course,” Luca said. “I will be in touch.”
There was a soft click, and silence returned to the warm space inside the car.
*
Quintin only drove for a few miles before he pulled into a petrol station. He parked the car in the shadows, outside the pools of fluorescents flickering over the pumps like haywire strobe lights. He scrambled out of the car and began a search of his own. Under the seats, the glove box, the trunk, even the engine. He was hoping to find something that would give him insight into who Luca was. And what in the hell had he been doing upstairs at the party? Was he looking for something? Had Quintin accidentally interrupted a break-in of some kind? Was he there to cause harm? Or was he really a good guy who was just trying to protect the ambassador but got there too late?
